


i had a dream (we robbed the record store)

by idekman



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Comfort fic, F/M, blood tw, injuries tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-28 07:02:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6319372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idekman/pseuds/idekman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>‘Page. What happened?’</p><p>She laughs. There’s blood on her teeth and blood on her top and suddenly she looks like a fucking nightmare, armed with her fists and her scrap and her sharp, dangerous grin, laugh husky and crackling.</p><p>‘Bar fight,’ she tells him simply. Taps her fingers noisily against the table. He can’t quite process what she’s saying.</p><p>--</p><p>Karen breaks into Frank's apartment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i had a dream (we robbed the record store)

New York is quiet this evening.

This is rare. Usually everything bounces about at hyper-speed, car horns and screeching, drunken college students and, depending which neighbourhood he’s in, gun shots, the messy smacks of fistfights. But tonight he’s tucked away in his apartment and everything has faded to a hum, muffled and almost soothing. He’s full and warm and his dog – he hasn’t thought of a name for it yet, so he just calls it Dog – is curled up at his feet and, a few beers deep, he feels inordinately normal. The TV buzzes away at him, turned down low enough that he can’t quite hear the words, but loud of enough for it to be a distraction that'll help him sleep.

The warmth is infectious, seeping into his bones, and he knows he should drag his ass to bed to avoid an odd crick in his neck in the morning – but Dog whimpers when he goes to move and so he thuds back against the cushions, chuckling when a wet nose snuffles against his hand.

He really shouldn't be surprised, then, when a rattle of foot steps on his fire escape ricochets around his apartment, cutting through the sleepy peace, any temporary sense of normality immediately diffused. There’s a gun close to hand – he hadn’t been feeling _that_ domestic – that he snatches up, shaking his head to clear some of the drowsiness as Dog whimpers, threatening to break into a full-on bark as he slips off the sofa.

‘Shh,’ he mumbles, scritching at Dog’s ears as he cocks his head, straining to listen. There’s the tell-tale scrabble of fingers against the window frame and he’s across the other side of the apartment, bleeding into the shadows as he trains his gun on-target. Internally, he curses himself; should’ve turned a light on. If he does it now, whoever’s breaking into his apartment – whoever’s coming for him – will know he’s awake, and he’ll have lost the upper hand.

But he can’t see for shit, which means that when the window finally grinds open and someone stumbles inside he’s tempted to shoot first, ask questions later. Instead, he waits, wonders what the invader’s next move will be.

There’s a beat of queasiness as he watches a shadow slink through his apartment – and then they stumble, hanging off the back of the sofa for balance, and he’s flicking the light switch on.

‘Jesus,’ he snaps out, _‘Page?'_

She glances across at him, blinking in the abrupt influx of light.

‘Oh. Hey, Frank.’

She staggers a little way, one arm wrapped around her ribs before she not so much chooses to sit down as falls into a seat. Something in his chest tugs him across the room but he forces himself to stay put, to watch Karen as she picks up a beer bottle, considering it for a moment before letting it clink down on the worn table top when she realises it's empty.

She seeks him out again, forehead crinkled. And sure, she looks like shit. There’s a bruise rapidly forming over her cheekbone, a cut over the bridge of her nose. Split lip. Blood crusted around her nose, more smeared across a white vest top. He assumes she lost her shirt somewhere along the way, judging by the bruises in the shape of a hand-print across her arm. She looks like shit. Christ, she looks like _him_. But still – those big blues and that wash of blonde hair that she’s pushing out of her hair with shaking hands, and –

Her hands are shaking. Holding her ribs like she’s keeping herself inside.

_What happened?_

‘You look like shit,’ he tells her, finally shoving his gun in the back of his jeans. Now that she doesn’t have a gun trained at her head, Karen relaxes a fraction – and, like a knee-jerk reaction, guilt rushes through him. He gets a few beers out of the fridge, passes her one

She throws him a look.

‘You should see the other guy.’ She pauses, cocks her head to one side. ‘Guys, _plural_ , actually.’

Everything in him goes cold and burns all at once.

He rolls the beer bottle between his hands, listens to the clink of his wedding band against the glass. Forces his breath to be easy and his voice to be steady when he asks;

 _‘Page_. What happened?’

She laughs. There’s blood on her teeth and blood on her top and suddenly she looks like a fucking nightmare, armed with her fists and her scrap and her sharp, dangerous grin, laugh husky and crackling.

‘Bar fight,’ she tells him simply. Taps her fingers noisily against the table. He can’t quite process what she’s saying.

‘You got in a _bar fight?’_ He forces out. He wants to sit down _(to comfort her)_ but she looks like she’s about to shake apart, fingers beating out a rhythm now as her foot jars discordantly against the floor every now and then. He’s worried that if he touches her she’ll explode. So he stays where he is, leaned against his kitchen cabinets, watching her pick the label off her beer bottle and chew her bottom lip into shreds.

Eventually, she nods, as if she heard his question a minute after he’d asked it.

‘ _Why?’_

She shrugs, swigs her beer and swipes a hand across her mouth.

‘Well,’ she starts up, speaking through the quake in her throat, ‘I say bar fight. It was _outside_ the bar. Two guys with – um. With knives. They tried to – to –’ she breaks off and he makes an aborted movement to – to what? The gun? The seat next to her? The window, to hunt down the two assholes who did this to her? ‘Tried to take me,’ she eventually finishes. ‘You know, chloroform, a rag, the whole – shebang.’ Her laugh is hollow. ‘Sort of becoming a habit for me.’

‘Page, what –’

‘It’s okay,’ she interrupts. ‘I got away. I got rid of them. I didn’t bring them here –’

She’s pressing a fist against her forehead and gasping. Big, convulsive movements, like she’s swallowing sobs, and he’s crouching down in front of her, trying to meet her eye – but she won’t look at him.

‘You’re safe here,’ he tells her. She laughs at that, right in his face, a painful sort of bark.

‘I don’t think I am, Frank,’ she tells him, twisting in her seat so they’re face-to-face, nose-to-nose, a horrible, queasy intensity building between them as she brushes a hand across his jaw and breathes out, incredulous and almost laughing again; ‘I don't think I'm safe anywhere.’

And then she’s turning back to her beer, taking a few deep swigs, leaving him rested on his haunches. Useless.

‘I’m just really tired of being scared.’

Her voice is small and she speaks out into the space of the apartment, not to him. Screaming into thin air.

‘Please,’ he starts up – then cuts himself off again. He wants to tell her, _please don’t be scared_. But it doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t help. So when Karen turns to him, expectant, he doesn’t have anything to offer.

A car clatters by and she nearly jumps out of her skin, eyes skittering off towards the window. For a moment, he’s back in the diner, watching as she judders half out of her skin at the sound of some crashing plates.

Something deep down crackles and splits and he reaches out to put his hand over Karen’s. Just for a moment, her fingers curl up to his and his eyes flicker shut, taking in the coldness of her skin and the gentleness of the touch, feeling the shudder of an exhale roll through her chest, across their hands and into his as he breathes in. 

Then she retracts, wraps an arm around herself again and hisses again.

‘I think I’m bleeding.’

She lets him pull away her arm, lets him lift her top, stuck to her skin with blood, so he can see the stab wound running the length of her ribs. His fingers come away red and stained dark.

‘Karen,’ he breathes out. He can’t think of anything to say so he says it again, hissed out between his teeth as he nudges her over to the sofa, fetches an extensive first aid kit from the bathroom and begins swiping away blood from her rib cage. Over his shoulder, Karen watches the television, silent and still even as he presses against the black and blue bruises splayed across her ribs and she flinches away from his touch. ‘Sorry,’ he murmurs. His too-big, rough hands aren’t made for soothing. It’s been a while since they’ve been used for anything much more than handling guns and knives. When he finally begins pushing a needle through her skin she recoils a little, a gasp rushing out through gritted teeth. His fingers flutter uselessly against an xylophone ribcage, attempting to comfort.

She looks lean – too skinny. Every time she takes a breath he can see her rib cage push up against her skin. She’s smaller, gaunter, now, than when he last saw her – and tired, shadows settled beneath her eyes, face lined with exhaustion.

He pushes another stitch through and, focusing on the movements of his hands, practiced and perfected after patching himself up time and time again, he asks;

‘You been alright, Page?’

Her eyes flicker to his, huge and bright in the dim light. When she speaks, everything is choked up.

‘No. Have you?’

His head bows.

‘No,’ he admits, voice a husk. It still sounds too loud in the quiet of his apartment. Karen nods, stares up at the ceiling. Outside, a cab driver presses down on their horn. Someone upstairs thuds noisily to the bathroom. Karen rattles out a sigh and for a moment he considers just resting his hand against her rib cage, trying to exude a comfort and care he can’t express through words via touch. Wonders what it might be like to press his forehead against hers, lay his fingers gentle on the sharp curve of her jawbone, just to let her know that he’s there.

Instead, he carries on with his needle, sews Karen Page up and cleans her blood off the kitchen table and the wall and the carpet after she falls asleep.  

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from 'twinkle song' by miley cyrus, which i listened to on repeat and explains why this fic is so depressing. it was gonna have a happy ending involving frank's dog but, much like the tv show itself, frank's dog disappears halfway through for no good reason. im sorry.   
> most of the fics in the karen/frank tag involve frank rocking up at karen's apartment after a fight, so i thought i'd flip that. fits into my 'karen page is marvel's next greatest villain' theory too a bit.  
> come cry in my inbox on tumblr: whambamsebastianstan


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